


Resurrection

by sternflammenden



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Future Fic, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-16
Updated: 2013-04-16
Packaged: 2017-12-08 17:04:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/763853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sternflammenden/pseuds/sternflammenden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The deep parallels between Quellon Greyjoy's weakest son and Balon's own</p>
            </blockquote>





	Resurrection

Balon’s son is a stranger to them all, this man-child who is more wolf than kraken, with his mainland finery, none of which he has earned, and his presumptuous manners, assuming the entitled position of heir, of prince. Victarion watches as he sits in the great hall, picking at the meat and bread before him, unused to the sparer repast provided by Pyke’s larders, drinking far too much mead and beer, his eyes following the bosom of every thrall and serving wench who cross his path. It is too much for his uncle to bear, and he turns away, fidgeting with his own cup, the half-touched meat before him. He is reminded of the past, the recent history of his own house, in another time of war, but this conflict was of the Ironborn’s own making, and there was more of a sense of triumph to the vast chambers of the holdfast, rather than this desperation, teeth gritting and faces hard, as his men, Balon’s men, prepare for yet another uprising against the Greenlanders who scorn their custom and their laws. 

When he goes to his brother’s chambers that evening, Victarion knows that Balon will be in a foul mood. And he is correct in that. The King of the Iron Islands paces before the large window in his solar, looking out over the darkness and the moon hanging low over the water. He is still and silent, but when he turns to face Victarion, his mouth is compressed in a thin line, and his eyes blaze with a frustration that Victarion has not seen in many years, not since they lost their own Rebellion, and their heir was ransomed to placate a pretender king. 

"He will not serve,” Balon says, his voice cutting through the shadows, and he bites his lip, perhaps to staunch the litany of abuse that Victarion presumes burns in his mind. “He has been far too long with the wolves.”

“So you feel that you cannot trust him to do his duty?” 

“I am not sure.” Balon crosses the room, seating himself at the rough wooden desk, covered haphazardly with maps, and scarred with many years of use. “Who can be certain what is in his mind? Theon was but a boy when he was taken from us, and now, he is nothing more than a fool.” 

Victarion joins him, sitting silently by his brother’s side, permitting Balon to unleash his frustrations as he usually does, his sympathy wholly with his king. He too had doubted the usefulness of the boy, and had presumed that he had been taught softer ways during his time at Winterfell, all the better to keep them safe when inevitably, the winds shifted and he must needs return to his own people. And a feeling nags at him, ever since he beheld the dandy’s velvets and gilded decoration that bedeck his nephew’s person, goods from gold, from soft merchants from across the Narrow Sea, or the bazaars at White Harbor, and not taken in the old manner of things. 

“He is like Aeron,” Balon says at last, his voice almost a whisper. “Aeron…before.” 

Their eyes meet, and Victarion remembers their younger brother, barely out of his own adolescence, thrust under his elder brothers’ commands by Quellon’s attempt to staunch the laughter that bubbles far too frequently from his sensuous lips, to dull the finery, dandy’s garb, that he bears as he trips through the islands of his birthright. Victarion had done his best, showing Aeron the harsher side of his tongue many times over as the boy had made a mockery of his command, his imitations of Victarion’s broad stride and booming voice as he called out orders on the deck of the Iron Victory, ringing harsh in his older brother’s ears, still after all this time. He had not dared to mention his own doubts to Quellon, knowing full well the man’s fury at the suggestion that any one of his seed was less than fit to rule. And he had done his best to mask his disgust at the godless progression of thralls and bedwarmers, men and women of all ages, all appearances, that ducked in and out of Aeron’s chambers night after night, sitting on his lap and nestling in his arms in the taverns of the islands and on the mainlands.

Aeron had not the stomach for true command, nor the mind.

It had taken tragedy to bring Aeron to his senses, to force him to see the proper way, the way of the Drowned God. He had nearly died that day when his ship sunk off of Fair Isle, finding somehow in the bondage of the Lannisters, fools all, comfort in his watery halls, and his promises of eternal life below. Victarion feared, no dreaded, that such an event would have to befall this Theon Greyjoy, this paper prince who struts about, smiling too easily, laughing too freely, before he was fit to rule. 

And when he voiced such concerns to Balon, his elder brother shook his head, a grim smile creasing his thin features. “I do not think that it will come to that,” he said after a time. “At least, I hope that it does not, for all our sakes.” He blows out the single light in the room, a flickering candle, casting them both into darkness. 

*

Time passes, a war and winter rage. Kings fall, on the Iron Islands and on the mainland, and captains and their fleets take risky journeys to distant lands on fool’s missions. And the heir to Pyke and his sister find themselves spared, bound west in a leaky vessel after the final battle, hoping to rebuild something of the old ways, and forge something new for themselves. 

They come back to Pyke when the ice that covers the land has begun to melt, and Theon sits in the bottom of the small rowboat that bears him and his sister from the borrowed ship, wrapping a roughspun cloak around him, unwilling to watch as the land that was never quite home grows larger on the horizon, his eyes cast, instead, on the sea and the dark depths that the waves conceal. Asha chooses to watch the islands that loom out of the water like jagged teeth, shading her eyes with a steady hand against the harsh light of the sun. She is not surprised, as they near, to see men in the waters around the harbor, some thralls casting nets on a mission from the upjumped lords that have sprung up to replace the dead, and some the newest converts to the faith of the Drowned God, doing their best to brave the still icy temperatures of the ocean, clutching their plain clothing around bodies that tremble despite their best efforts. 

She sees her nuncle among them, his presence an unsurprising constant in the world that has been rent and changed, his voice just as resonant as always as he chants the old words, keeps the old ways, dousing their upturned faces with saltwater, drowning them in the sea that they will return from if they are worthy. War has only done its part to encourage the Ironborn to keep the faith, seeing as how their broken prince and his sister, Balon’s children, have been returned at last to them, and their people, for the most part, have been largely untouched by the many wars, the countless kings. Asha does not flinch, does not move, until she hears the splash, and feels the lightness of the craft, but she can only watch as Theon wades, chest-deep, toward Aeron and his disciples that form a ring in a place where the water is calm. 

He approaches the converts, the newly-made priests, the faithful to-be, and when his eyes meet Aeron’s, there is only understanding and what might even be sympathy in the piercing blue eyes, so like his father’s, only these contain no scorn. 

“Will you,” Theon says, his voice that of an old man’s, rusty and damp from lack of use, like a rotten longship, a rusty hinge, an old wound. 

Aeron does not respond, but he merely applies a gentle, yet firm pressure, on his nephew’s shoulders, submerging him beneath the waves that lap at their waists, not relenting until Theon is bent, as though he is bowing before a great lord, a great god, and he releases his body, noting how thin and weak the boy has grown, how limp the flesh sags from the bone. When his body bobs to the surface, Aeron presses his lips to Theon’s, breathing sour breath into his lungs until he spasms, coughing, struggling against the life-granting embrace that almost chokes him. 

The salt water stings the wounds that cover his body, however concealed they might be, remembrances of the lash and the manacles from Stannis’ camp, and gifts for his disobedience from Ramsay’s cunning blades. But it is a good pain, a burning that purges more than it harms, and he is glad for the water that courses down his face as he takes a struggling breath, filling his newly-formed lungs, resurrected, with the salt air of Pyke, for it hides the tears that flow just as easily.


End file.
